A Fireside turned Blue
by BladeOfFarfalla
Summary: It was her hands sliding along the pommel of her sword, gripping it with the familiarity and ease of a seasoned warrior—those hands Alistair decided, he wanted to know, and he wanted her to know his."Character-centric musings focusing on Alistair/PC
1. Half the horizon is gone

It was her hands sliding along the pommel of her sword, gripping it with the familiarity and ease of a seasoned warrior—those hands Alistair decided, he wanted to know, and he wanted her to know his.

What a way to become enraptured with a person he thinks idly, by watching them day after day killing things, people and Maker knows what else. With what little experience he has had, and what notions he has gained in life about love, he knows this is an entirely wrong way to fall in love with a person. He knows its cliché, knows it's so very naïve and foolish of him, but isn't the first thing he's supposed to notice is her eyes? Or some dribble like that…

At Ostagar the first thing he noticed were those hands, even bound in simply leather gloves he became entranced as the tapering masterpieces brushed across the side of her face; a nasty bugger of a bruise stretched so horridly across, blackening one eye—busted part of her lip. She fingers it like a fresh scab, the memory of the pain anew each time she flirts with the prospect of letting it bleed again. Or at least that's what he would feel with a wound like that, and Alistair knows it isn't entirely inaccurate with the look in her dark eyes as she drops her hand away in defeat.

Yes they were dark, brown he was sure, but in the current lighting he's observing her in they might as well be the blackness of the sky overhead—starless and abysmal. _How romantic, to describe the object of one's affections having a quality of abysmal. You're a desperate and tragic fool Alistair, and you don't need Morrigan's reminder because you know it all on your own._

Oh! But those sensual and dangerous things—how they grip to her shield and shatter the face of a Darkspawn scout in a sweeping arc. He can hardly focus on deflecting the barrage of arrows coming his way as he watches her stand over the wretched thing, its squealing cries in a language he can hear but fails to understand; he feels himself smile as she lops its head off effortlessly and the cries desist.

"Well I'll be a nug-herders pale ass! I've just cleaved my five hundredth Darkspawn head!" There is a barrel of laughter that wakes Alistair from his reverie as he shifts his focus to Oghren as he marks the handle of his axe. "You are a most incorrigible liar dwarf," Morrigan interrupts flippantly, the smoldering of embers dying on the tip of her staff, "…'tis no concern of mine however, who am I to crush the delusions of a drunkard?"

"My lovely Morrigan," Zevran said, siding up to her, his eyes glittering in mirth, "The way you use that mouth so! To abuse us so rapturously, one would think it had other talents it could be engaging in…" The temperature surrounding the party dropped as Morrigan stalks off, hands coated in ice, throwing curses at the howling laughter of Oghren and the merciless chuckle of his elven partner in crime.

He laughs as well, standing and clearing off the arrows that pierced in the melee he looks back over to where she's standing—he's caught by surprise, she's staring right at him, with those eyes he should have noticed first; her expression is unreadable and her lips are parted as if to speak but remain wordless.

That comes second right? In the scant books he's read they tell of the maidens lips, and how tempting they are every waking moment to him. He would be lying if he said they were not, but as they look at each other (he with astonishment and what he guesses from her is curiosity) he is drawn to the outline of her ears—and the slope of her neck attached to them.

She is an elf, this is fact. When they engage in conversation she either cocks her head upwards to look at him or he leans forward a bit too much in her direction, causing him quite a lot of grief from the others. All of these things though, they're shallow things, details without substance; he feels like a boy in a man's clothes—all the intent in the world but none of the experience required.

"You know, when you have your face scrunched up like that you look rather like a new born Mabari pup," she says, standing in front of him with her hands on her hips, a delicate smile threatening its way on her face.

He blinks and notices he's stopped in mid stride to think about his predicament, Morrigan, Zevran and Oghren are blurs of light against the fading sunlight; she had been the only one to stop. "I _was_ raised by dogs, remember? It wouldn't be too much of a stretch of the imagination to think I looked like one," he answers as smoothly as possible, she chuckles and he sighs inwardly.

"No, no, I guess not. We've got a ways to go yet though, let's not dally any longer." Her pigtails whip about her head as she's marching on, all business and duty again—it takes him a moment to recover, he wonders how he survived the skirmish not even fifteen minutes ago, with nothing but thoughts of her in his head.

_This is really bad.  
_  
Which was an understatement really, he silently cursed himself as he began walking again, looking down at the ground instead of her. It doesn't even really make sense, there are more beautiful, more enchanting women he's encountered, but his mind makes its way back to her. Alistair has witnessed discrimination against elves, but at every stop and every conversation she engaged in there it was: Knife Ears—he feels himself get angry, bitters words that edge on to his tongue that he's more than willing to throw at whomever has uttered the says nothing though, regarding them with a pensive silence, but it's there in her eyes.

He can't even begin to imagine what she's gone through, a part of him wants to know, the desperate and longing part, but the other part begs him to consider things carefully. _Be reasonable, just because you're the last two Grey Wardens left in Ferelden doesn't mean she's interested in becoming chummy, or anything of that sort…_

When they reach camp daylight has retreated from them, and night begins its long and torturous reign—everyone is already going about what they usually do, he for once is at a loss at what he should be doing. He feels controlled, no, compelled to hide away in his tent to ponder on his predicament, as if otherworldly forces have taken over him utterly.

It was in Lothering, he thinks, rummaging through his belongings with intent in mind; _she had seen that little boy, with that unruly red hair, dirt smudged face, he was begging people to stop, "Have you seen my mother?" Alistair is sure he sees her ears twitch, because they are headed in the opposite direction when she beelines for this little boy._

_"Have you seen my mother?" She shakes her head, kneeling to be eye level with him, "Mother said she'd come back for me, but mother hasn't returned…" Oh by Andraste's knickers Alistair thinks as he watches his companion take out a handkerchief, she cups his small face in her hands and she wipes away the tear stains that have left lines in his dirt covered face. Morrigan makes a choking sound in her throat but they both ignore her._

_"I haven't seen her, but I will look for her, I promise," she says, taking out a few silvers she folds them into his hand and his eyes are wide with something like wonder._

_"Are you really an elf?" She laughs, actually laughs and Alistair is in shock as well._

_"The ears gave me away did they?"_

_"It's just, father says that elves aren't very nice, but you're nicer than everybody here—thank you for helping me."_

_He smiles a toothy kind of smile, and he makes his way towards the Chantry, she stands up and it's then when he looks at her he sees something very hidden, and she knows something of herself has been given up and she's all pursed lips and business again but his stomach is aflutter and Marker—help him he hasn't the faintest idea why._


	2. Cold as numbers

A.N: I received a few nice, and very much appreciated comments on the first chapter, this is the most I've ever written, _ever._ I would appreciate feedback, it always helps to have honest critique on things I could improve and things I did well. I give Tabris a name finally, just because I couldn't write that long referring to her only as Warden—I don't care for the default, so I hope you all don't mind that I didn't use it. In case you were wondering, it's pronounced (Bell-EYE) :P I wanted to avoid this chapter being nothing but in game dialogue quoting , (I couldn't find it youtube anyway) but there's a lot of it, so I changed to up…not to mention I couldn't remember it all for the life of me. However, it was necessary to get through, and fill so that I could move on to more angsty, smut filled things to come. Also, I don't own, Bioware does, kind of like my soul.

* * *

The name of the place is not a lie, this he knows for sure. _Haven_, _haven for oodles of insanity_ he thinks musingly—what can a person _really_ expect however when you're dealing with the remains of a holy figure? For Arl Eamon's sake though, Alistair cannot afford to be offset by a few little _bumps_ on the long and winding path: An insidious cult, ruins littered with booby-traps, blood magic, and oh we simply cannot forget dragons. Dragon kin to be exact, everywhere, breathing fire and—Maker's breath the_ smell_, and they hadn't even gotten to her ashes yet, they were just climbing a ridiculously large and cold mountain to reach Andraste's remains.

Things wouldn't be so bothersome though if he hadn't given her that damn flower,_ rose; excuse me it's a rose._ Courage he knows is relative, he can face down hordes of anything really, _Darkspawn, legions of undead, abominations and oh yes dragons._ When he gets silly ideas in his head though, ones that involve picking roses and saving them to give to her…bravery only extends as far as the thought itself and not the actual _process. _

_

* * *

__  
Alistair had not been brave when he cornered her at the docks in Redcliffe village; he had in fact been a mess of nerves and wonderings about how he smelled and if he remembered to brush his teeth earlier in the morning._

_What really makes him panicky is that the situation is so perfect. The others were away on various tasks to prepare themselves for the quest ahead of them—Andraste's ashes, he almost had to silently agree with Sten when he voiced his disapproval on their current plan, it had nothing to do with defeating the Blight, but it would perhaps save his only father figure, he didn't expect Sten to understand. She and the Qunari, it was almost comical how well they got along, if Alistair didn't know better he'd swear Sten had a crush on their leader. Not __**their**__ kind of crush though, the Qunari kind, that has absolutely nothing to do with things that having crushes should be about._

_Like giving a pretty girl a rose—it's easy right? All you have to do is pick the sodding thing, shove it into their awaiting hands and wait as they fawn all over you. __**Oh yes, so very easy.**__ He knows that's not how it works, and it's not how he wants things to work between them. If anything at __**all**__, could ever work between them. _

_So when he approaches her on the docks she's standing there as still as can be, staring at the water with an unwavering intensity that he almost considers backing out—too late now though, he's got the stupid thing in his hand and he's sheepishly admiring how her hair looks in the morning light._

"_You know, before I became a Gray Warden I never saw a body of water larger than a pond." She turns around to look at him; they've become accustomed to sensing each other with the taint, they know where the other is at all times—he refrains from thinking any deeper into it however._

"_Really? You, umm…never got to go to the docks at Denerim? You've never seen the Amaranthine?"_

"_No." She walks towards the edge and plops down unceremoniously, she begins unlacing her boots and he finds himself once again staring at her with a mixture of awe and maybe horror. His first instinct is to join her, but in this small instance his brain and that other__** thing**__ decide to fill his mind with their incessant prattling—he holds back, fingering the soft petals of the flower in his palm hoping it would tell him what to do._

_Oh, and if she just isn't oblivious to it all, and if he just isn't completely shocked at the sight of her bare __**legs. **__Her maroon breeches end at the knee; he follows the tantalizing curve of it and wishes to no one in particular that __**he**__ could stroke the well defined muscles of her calves. _

_**Bugger**__, he thinks, and tossing whatever caution he has to the wind he unlaces his boots as well—making a decidedly larger splash when his feet enter the water. He tries not to look at her from the corner of his eye, with her lips parted to taste the air—to taste the atmosphere. It almost infuriates Alistair, he knows enough about people and women that there are two kinds of distinct people in regards to modesty._

_For women, there's the kind that know they're beautiful. They go the extra mile to bat an eyelash, graze a hand against an unsuspecting arm, blow a kiss and wink with the promise of more. Then there was the second, women who either don't know they're beautiful or just didn't care. He thinks she's the latter, with the premise of not caring, but she should __**care.**_

_She needs to know that she does cause the eye to wander, eyes like Bann Teagan's, eyes like_ Ser Perth's and all the obvious leers at the tavern—and from certain Antivan assassins.

_They sit in silence for moments that stretch on like hours, he hadn't meant to sit so near to her but he notices the scant appearance of goose-flesh as his thigh comes into proximity of hers, __**oh just thinking of the implications…**__and of course he thinks about them, and the heat rises to his cheeks and he forcibly will's it to go nowhere __**else. **_

"_So, umm, we'll be heading off soon then?"_

_She nods and slowly churns circles around with her toes, "I can only hope that this brother Genitivi figure is still alive and can point us in the right direction, if not, we'll be wasting a lot of hours chasing a fairy tale." Her voice softens a pitch from its usual taciturn as she turns to look at Alistair, "Someone like the Arl though should not waste away into nothingness without having every option exhausted for him."_

_Like how even though the Circle Tower was more than a day's ride away from Redcliffe, she had utterly refused using blood magic to free Connor from the demon in the Fade. Alistair would have been lying if his heart hadn't skipped two or three beats at her fierce insistence, but even he knew that travelling away from the castle was unwise. It wasn't like she did it because of him, and even if she had, he's sure she'd never admit it. It was like the boy in Lothering and the missing daughter of the smithy, and all the people she went out of her way to help—when she didn't have to, when they gave no reason, and when it wasn't the best of plans._

_Swallowing his fear and tucking it away somewhere away where it wouldn't interfere with what he was about to do, he cleared his throat and withdrew the rose from behind his back. _

"_Here," he holds it out to her and she accepts it mutely, gingerly. "Do you know what this is?" She stares at him blankly, and her eyes shift to the drooping rose._

"_Is this your new weapon of choice?"He tries not to laugh manically at his own anxiety, but he's relieved that at least she's feeling playful._

"_Yes! That's right! Watch as I thrash our enemies with the power of floral arrangements!" He brandishes a pretend bouquet, parrying an invisible enemy. "Take that! And that! Feel my thorns wretched Darkspawn!" Her eyes are wide with something he is unfamiliar with, but it's neither good nor bad and hope blooms inside of him. "I will overpower you with my rosy scent!!" Her lovely hand, the one not holding the rose has risen to cover her mouth as she appears to be beset by giggles—he stops and the sight of this pleases him more than anything ever has before._

"_Or you know it could just be a rose. I know that's pretty dull in comparison." _

"_You've umm, been holding on to this for a while now haven't you?" She has a smile, or what he thinks is a smile on her face. So he tells her when he picked it, in Lothering, after watching her extend kindness to people who hadn't deserved it, and people who needed it the most; and yes, he tells her that even in a place like Lothering, in all the muck and despair something beautiful can exist._

_Something beautiful like her, unexpected but beautiful nonetheless, and his heart won't stop beating in his ears—and the lovely expression still remains on her face even if he isn't sure quite what it means. Her eyebrows finally quirk up, the corner of her mouth upturned in a grin, "So are you telling me I'm some sort of gentle flower?" __**No, no, no, I'm trying to tell you that you're beautiful and special and, and…**_

_Alistair coughs and scratches the back of his head to cover for his embarrassment, "I guess it is a bit silly, isn't it? I just thought…here I am, doing all of this complaining and you haven't exactly been having a good time of it yourself." He doesn't avoid her steady gaze as he remembers to speak clearly, concisely and for Maker's sake—don't __**fidget**__, it's such a feat though with those intensely dark orbs of hers considering him. "You haven't had any of the good experiences of being a Gray Warden, no one has thanked you, no one has congratulated you…it's just been fighting and tragedy. I just thought that__** maybe**__ I could say something. Tell you what a rare and wonderful person you are to find in all of this…darkness."_

_There it is again, the silence, palpable between them as he fights to keep from biting his fingernails or inadvertently pick his nose from nervousness. She raises the rose to her lips and brushes it idly across, __**OhbytheMaker**__, time has frozen and if he isn't jealous of a flower. Her eyes close and they're heavy lidded and flutter gorgeously as she slightly inhales what scent is left of it—and when she opens her eyes to look at him, and yes, she's__** really**__ looking at him she __**really**__ smiles._

"_You know, back home, in the Alienage I worked in a hole in the wall in Denerim. There was a man once—well I guess he wasn't more than a boy and I was but fifteen summers, he was a minstrel and Maker—the poor man could hardly carry a tune…but he tried, and he never stopped even when they booed at him and he was covered in ale and rubbish." She pauses and blows a stray piece of hair out of her face that Alistair silently curses that he wasn't fast enough to think to tuck it behind her ear. "One night, when we were closing he came over to me and thanked me for never laughing at him, or being cruel, and that—and that he was sorry the both of us had to work in the wretched place. He plucked a flower from his hat and gave it to me…I never saw him again though."_

_He wonders at first what that's got to do with anything, but it slowly dawns on him what she's trying to say._

"_I'll never laugh at you Alistair, at least, not when you're not trying to be funny. And…thank you, I don't quite know what to say, but, thank you nonetheless." Alistair expects her to get up and leave right then, but she doesn't—what he doesn't expect and it catches him __**completely**__ off guard is that she's leaned over and pressed her lips ever so lightly, a flutter of a butterflies wings, on his cheek. _

_It's over before he even realizes what's happened, and she's picked up her boots and leaves without hesitation—the sound of her bare feet slapping hurriedly on the deck. _

"_I shall never wash this cheek," he says aloud and grins, picking up his own boots he hurries after her so they can be on their way. _

_

* * *

_  
Alistair is still grinning like a fool, even if he's so cold he can't feel half his body. Morrigan is yapping unremittingly about the cold and Alistair for being stupid, and for the whole of Ferelden for being stupid and that their Maker was stupid as well. They were halfway up the mountain where Andraste's remains lay within their grasp when she turned around and looked at Morrigan, with what would suffice as a glare of death.

"Would you stop your prattling, _please_?" She says nothing else, but the effect is Morrigan's mouth hanging open and her eyebrows up to her hairline. It's things like these, moments where she speaks and it's so profound simply because of the sheer force behind her words—all the while not raising her voice, or filling it with any malice, Alistair thinks back to what Duncan said about her: _"She keeps her composure; she will be useful in disarming hostile situations in the future."_ He feels his good mood wilt at the thought of Duncan, if only he could have been here to see how disarming she truly was.

"Need I remind everyone how _unwise_ it is to linger in one place for too long? Morrigan keep your complaints to yourself for now, Alistair keep your wits about you, and _Belai, _lead on." Wynne snapped at them, her gaze steely on their leader and her teeth chattering, Alistair refrained from making a comment about _old bones _and continued to trudge up the mountain—knee deep in snow.

He remembered at Ostagar how embarrassed he was when he had forgotten her name, _Belai Tabris,_ the surname wasn't of much consequence now though, this he knew bothered her, which he understood, he was more than willing to ignore_ Theirin_ even though that name had never truly been his. The both of them were so used to just being referred to as _Warden_, or a moniker of the sort that names lost their importance over time—a lot of things got lost in service to the Grey Wardens.

The group came to a set of doors at last, Alistair moved to the front with Belai as Wynne and Morrigan held back to prepare for anything _magical_ in origin that could spring forth from the door, but as the two of them pushed at the entrance it gave way without resistance.

"That was—surprising." Belai said loudly over the wind, she tentatively stepped a foot inside and he followed suit, swords in hand and shields at the ready.

When they were all inside the doors shut firmly behind them in a gust of wind, Alistair gaped at the cavernous like hall, ornate pillars erected with symbols of Andraste and the Maker. "What is this place?" They all remained silent and walked slowly in wonder, "It's different from the rest." As soon as the words left his mouth flames sprouted from torches at the end of the room, and what looked like a man appeared before them, dressed in a design on armor no one had set eyes on before in thousands of years.

"I bid you welcome, pilgrims." His voice floated in the air and rang in their ears jarringly, somehow outside in the midst of a blizzard seemed more appealing to Alistair. Stepping forward Belai removed her cloak and bowed to the apparition, "Well met Ser, we have come for the Urn of Sacred Ashes, might I know your name?" She asks, standing up straight again to see the man's intention.

"I am the Guardian, the protector of the Urn of Sacred Ashes." He raises a hand to his chest in greeting, but his gaze is unwavering on them, "I have waited years for this."

"You've been waiting for us?"

"You are the first to arrive in a very long time." He gestures to their surroundings, although ornate it is littered with cobwebs and the scant appearance of_ bones_ and Alistair's stomach turns over at the sight, hoping they don't have to kill anymore _undead._ "It has been my life, my duty, to protect the Urn and prepare the way for the faithful who come to revere Andraste." Belai nods slowly and Alistair is counting in his head how many years it's been since the Exalted March, and who exactly this man is in relation to Andraste.

"For years beyond counting I have served, and I shall remain until my task is done and the Imperium has crumbled into the sea." Morrigan sighs and rolls her eyes, leaning up against a pillar she looks at her fingernails with interest as Wynne carefully watches for any sign of malicious intent from the specter._ Wow,_ Alistair thinks,_ and here I thought life in the chantry was dull._

"You should know Ser that the Imperium's strength has waned in the time you have been here."

"It is no matter; I will serve until every trace of them is wiped from the world." The Guardian and Belai talk about the cultists they had encountered, he speaks slowly but with conviction and the moments that pass seem agonizing to Alistair._ Last resting place of Andraste or no, this place still gives me the creeps, and after years of doing nothing but killing the unworthy and having conversations with the Maker—this Guardian knows how to drone._

"What an example the Chantry has had to live up to," Morrigan whispers to him, a smirk on her face, "It would make this spirit proud to know they're doing Andraste's memory_ justice._" Alistair scowls and opens his mouth to retort when he stops and listens intently to their conversation again.

"—and you shall, if you prove yourself worthy."

"I need the Ashes to cure a noble man, a man who needs to live in order to stop the Blight Ser."

"All must prove themselves worthy." _Oh this was a riot;_ Alistair just hoped no more dragons were involved in this proving. "But, it is not my place to decide who is worthy of _Her_. The Gauntlet does that."

_The Gauntlet, Haven, more crazy. One day they'll have gone over their limit of how much they can handle. _

"And if we are worthy?" Belai asks quietly, something like hope thick in her voice.

"Then you may take a small pinch of Ashes." Alistair and Belai both sigh in relief, he flashes a grin and she shyly returns it, hesitantly.

"But, if you are not…" The Guardian interrupts, "You will not leave this place. The Gauntlet separates the true pilgrims from the false, you will undergo four tests of faith and then we shall see how your soul fares."

"Then we are ready, we shall take these tests." The Guardian nods, but does not move so that they may proceed forward, he is staring at Belai, scrutinizing her, examining them all Alistair supposes—_wondering if we'll leave this place alive._

"Before you go, there is something I must ask of you, Belai Tabris. I see that the path that led you here has been marred with tribulations, there is suffering in your past—your suffering, and the suffering of others."

"You may ask Ser," Belai replies, but her voice is not without fear as his ghostly eyes bore into her—Alistair is torn between surprise at the request, and the question itself, she had never talked to him explicitly about all that happened before Ostagar.

"By the time you reached Shianni, she was broken, brutalized. You were too late." He watches as her lower lip begins to tremble, her eyes narrow and her hands have balled into fists at her side, but he doesn't know what to say.

"Tell me, pilgrim, did you fail Shianni?" This is when Alistair, Wynne and even Morrigan watch as their reluctant leader loses all trace of composure, her placid façade crumbling beneath a question that none of them understand. He is helpless, helpless as choked sobs are pushed down into the very deep of her, her eyes screwed shut to hold the thoughts at bay—he wishes he could hold her, but Alistair knows it's too bold of a thought, even if it's the only thing he can think to do.

"How—how do you know of this?" She whispers, eyes glazed in unshed tears.

"Everything that you are is laid out before me, plain to see—it is in the lines of your face, the harrowing in your eyes and the scars on your heart. Do you believe you failed Shianni?"

"Yes," it comes out like a scream and a whisper, "But I tried—by the Maker I tried, I told him to take me! To leave her alone, to leave them all alone!" She is pale and the dark circles under her eyes are more apparent than ever as her whole body trembles. "I could have run faster, I could have stopped him."

"Then you regret what was done, but you should not let your past failings govern the actions of the present." Morrigan moves to her side and waves her arms is frustration at the Guardian.

"Is there any religion that does not thrive upon guilt like a glutton? No? I thought not. One wonders what this Guardians purpose is--be wary of his traps." Belai hardly pays attention to Morrigan's surprising show of concern, she is somewhere else, far from here and Alistair can stand it no longer and reaches out to clasp her shoulder.

"No one's perfect," she turns her head to look at him, her frown deepens and she shrugs his hand away.

"And what of those that follow you?" The Guardian interrupts before Alistair has the time to feel hurt at her rejection, he feels the spirit turn its eyes to him.

"Alistair, knight and Warden…you wonder if things would have been different if you were there with him, with Duncan on the battlefield. You wonder if you could have shielded him from the killing blow, you wonder what would be if it had been you that died upon the battlefield, and not him."

Alistair swallows, he does not need to think on this question because everyone knows that he does, it haunts him every night in his dreams that are overrun with Darkspawn and despair. "I…yes, if Duncan had been saved, and not I, everything would be better,"_ I wouldn't be here listening to you, I wouldn't be here watching as she suffers and I stand here in my own doubts, unable to console her._ "If I had had the chance, maybe…" he trails off and remains silent, it is all he will give the spirit, The Guardian already knows the answer.

"Ask your question, Guardian, I am ready. " Wynne speaks up sternly, her mouth set in a firm line of determination. And he does, but Alistair barely hears them, he is too focused on thoughts of his death and not being here with _her_, watching as she is motionless and lost in her thoughts as he. It takes Morrigan's voice ironically to stir him from his stupor.

"Begone, spirit. I will _not_ play your games." The Guardian nods silently, saying that he will respect her wishes and he moves out of the way.

"The way is open. Good luck, and may you find what you seek." A flash of white light fills the room and the door to the next room is open, none of them move, save for Belai who's summed up enough of _something_ to continue—but she is not the same, rage radiates from her in a way Alistair has never seen, and he is cautious to speak of it.

So they move on, through the room of spirits who ask riddles about Andraste and Alistair is useful in ways that don't involve a sword or a deflecting comment, the entire time hoping that she will go back to simply being cool and reserved—not boiling with anger and distant. They are all on their last nerves when they move on to the next room, which has nothing inside of it save for a woman.

An elven woman with bright red hair, whose eyes are the same shape as Belai's, Alistair's heart sinks in his chest.

"Hey." She says, her arms folded protectively across her chest, they all stand back and give her space as she comes to stand in front of the spirit.

"Shianni?"

"Who else? It's good to see you. I suppose." Shianni's likeness steps closer to Belai, close enough for her to reach out and touch. Belai stares straight ahead, as if to look through her instead of at her.

"Life's been good to you cousin, hasn't it? You're respected, even amongst the humans…" She gazes lazily at them, and Alistair stares back hard. Shianni's face twists into a frown as her attention is back on Belai.

"Do you remember us cousin? Where you came from and what we're still going through back home?"

"How could I forget?" She answers bitterly, "Every night and every day I wish I could go back and change things, I never wanted _this_, and you should know that."

"No you don't," Shianni laughs, "You don't feel much anymore, and when you do it's not of us. You've moved on, past the horror of that night, past the horror of all those nights." She takes another step, her nose within a hair's breadth away from Belai's and Alistair moves to do something when Wynne's hand tightly grips his arm, "This is not your battle, do not interfere."

"I envy you, you know," she says, just above a whisper, Belai doesn't flinch. "You've gone on to other things, things that I can only dream of." A glare of light from torches in the corner reflect off an object in the spirit's hand, she lifts it up and dangles an amulet in front of her, whispering it over Belai's neck where it lays between her breasts. She steps away.

"You have a great task in front of you cousin, take this. You should have it, seeing you now; it gives me hope…for all of us." Her hand moves to the amulet and she grips it tightly, nodding her head slowly as Shianni moves further away until she disappears into nothingness, out of sight and out of mind.

"I won't forget." Belai says, exhaling a shaky breath. She turns around to look at them, "Let's go."

But it's on their minds, and it's on his especially, he _knows_ and he feels so many things as they press forward. It's _hurt_, its fear and its sorrow—but it's not for himself, it's not for Duncan and the other Grey Wardens they left behind, no, it's only for her as he sees her palms bleeding from the force of her nails driven into them—and all things he fails to understand because she doesn't say a word to them, to _him._


	3. Passive gracefully

A.N: Well, here it is, chapter three. I didn't think I'd make it this far, but I did! This is really mushy, so if you have an aversion to fluff turn around now. There's angst too though, I promise! Thank you to technoir over at Swooping_is_Bad for the feedback on this! As per usual, I don't own, bioware does, I'm just flexing my creative muscles

* * *

Secrets are like articles of clothing that don't find their way to the wash. At first they lay as still as can be, unnoticed—but after a time they begin to stink, screaming for retribution, or at least a testament to the marks and stains they carry. You can hide it, throw it in some long forgotten corner or cover it up with a rug; it remains though, the stench of untended things, so putrid that the thought of possible cleansing is abandoned.

He often neglects laundry, she washes everything twice. He hates secrets, and apparently she's wonderful at keeping them. "People are allowed their secrets Alistair." Wynne reminds him, as he watches Belai walk alone towards a clearing near the camp.

"Yes I know," he replies, "But there are some things that people should just _tell_ you." Things about her family, things about her past, and all the things_ he's_ shared—Alistair's sure they've all spilled two or three beans worth to her, after all, who could really deny her gentle curiosity? Surely not himself, he was more than willing to indulge her—when it came down to it though her lack of trust in them, in_ him_, did not set well at all. She accepted his flower hadn't she? Hadn't laughed in his face and even_ kissed_ his cheek?

Alistair rubs the spot nervously, remembering how her bottom lip scraped against this stubble, how the outside of it had been cracked, but the faint inside he had felt had been so_…soft, warm and…alluring. _Normally he would have suggested going to Leliana or even Morrigan for some balm, if only to give her some relief—she didn't though, which caused her to always randomly swipe at the corners and bottom of her lips to bring it some moisture.

* * *

_He had been caught staring at her more than once like this, much to his chagrin it usually was Zevran, or Oghren (and how Oghren could notice anything was beyond him). The assassin would smile, flip his insufferably blonde hair out of his face and waggle his eyebrows in Alistair's direction. "So I take it that your palate does not only include human women yes?" Alistair stopped dead in his tracks, ducking quickly to avoid a branch in his face's general direction._

"_What exactly is that supposed to mean?" Alistair had said scowling, slowly reddening at the cheeks and ears profusely. Zevran chuckled; clicking his tongue in the faux charming manner he always did, looping an arm around Alistair's shoulders._

"_My dear Warden, it simply means that your tastes are more expansive than some of your fellow Humans, the appeal of an elven woman is a strong one, no? With their fine features and graceful bodies, what is not to love about a beautiful elf such as our other Grey Warden?" Alistair's scowl deepened, causing Zevran's grin to spread. The two of them had been far enough behind the rest of the group that they could still see them, but their party could not hear them—giving Zevran a chance to unhinge his lecherous tongue without the glares from Belai and the other female companions."You may be a novice in the ways my dear Alistair, but you cannot feign innocence on this occasion." _

"_What exactly am I feigning innocence about?" Alistair replied exasperated, nearing the shade of a ripe tomato by the moment. With eyes glittering Zevran pointed towards the woman in question, who was completely oblivious to the two men who ogled her, too busy playing with Duke to notice anything suspicious from her party._

"_Do not tell me you do not see it?" He sighs, in a way that almost sounds like longing, making something in Alistair's gut clench, resisting the urge to break the Antivans arm draped over his shoulder. _

_Of course he sees it, every day. He lambastes himself for it, but he never looks away. The two of them see her differently though, of that Alistair is sure. Zevran raises his eyebrows in inquiry, "You did not answer the question my friend."_

"_I think you already know the answer."_

"_But I want to know what YOU see, how do you ever hope to win her affection if you cannot tell her simply, what it is about her you admire?" Alistair thinks on this, the stupid Antivan has a point, and his expression is all Zevran needs. "Is it how her mahogany hair shines in the fading light of the sun? Or how her skin, swarthy like the shifting sands of my dear Antiva glow beside the campfire where you exchange your fumbling flirtations, perhaps it is her lips—"_

"_Ok! Ok! I get it! It's all of those things! But it's more," Alistair sighs, exasperated and peeling Zevran's arm from his shoulder. "She's special…I don't expect someone like you to understand, she could have the face of a nug and I'd still love her."_

"_Who has the face of a nug?" Her alto timbre breaks into the privacy of the two men's conversation, they look at her, with her hands on her hips and the Mabari at her heel. They hadn't even heard her approach._

_Zevran's eyes widen in surprise, for once having nothing to say. Alistair blanches, "N-no one, no one has the face of a nug, maybe except for…"_

"_Morrigan, with her nose, the way it flares and twitches—when she's angry. It must be a chasind quality, but it is in all ways endearing! How the lovely Witch has captured my heart!" Alistair sighs in relief as Zevran interjects at the last moment, Belai's eyes narrow but Duke barks happily at her feet._

"_That isn't very nice." _

"_Morrigan isn't very nice," Alistair points out, hoping she doesn't notice how scarlet his face still is, "But you are, very nice that is, as a person."_

"_Ravishing too, Alistair and I were just commenting on how sumptuous you look when you've worked up a sweat, in fact—he said that—" Alistair clamps a firm hand over the elf's mouth, as Belai blinks, eyes wide and almost frightened—a scarce shade of pink rising to her cheeks._

"_It's time to go now Zevran! We have so little time and so many people to horrify!" With that he drags the laughing Antivan off, avoiding her wide eyes and blush as it follows him.  


* * *

  
_

"You look very much like the proverbial cat has your tongue Alistair," Blinking, Leliana's red hair swims into focus, she smiles cagily at him. "Did she really bring back remains of Andraste?" He nods wordlessly, pulling the pouch that hangs on a strip of hide from around his neck. Her blue eyes glitter, a whimsical sigh escapes her and for a moment, he too remembers the miracle in it all.

"Is that why she has taken solace? Was she so moved by Her that she needed respite?"

"Err… something like that." Alistair tucks the ashes back into his shirt, Leliana's focus still on him. "Did you need something?"

"Why are you not going to her? It is obvious that she is upset, she may prefer her space now, but I've seen looks like that before. She is troubled, and who better than you to alleviate those troubles?"

"Me?" Alistair asks incredulously, only hoping that she is right, that his companion would_ prefer_ that it were he she confided to. "I, I don't know. She doesn't really seem to need anyone to alleviate anything, I've tried—"

"Bah!" The bard waves her hand in front of his face as to dismiss him, her Orlesian lilt making his ears ring. "Have you ever _really_ asked her? She's not unapproachable, just cautious, who of us is not?"

She was right—every time he had approached her about certain things he had lost his nerve. Giving her the rose had been different, if not the largest act of courage he had mustered around her, not involving Darkspawn.

"It's cold, you had better get a move on before the storm hits," Leliana said, gesturing to the snow cloud ridden sky overhead. "Do not worry…just be patient with her, like we are all patient with you!" Before he has a chance to retort she's skipping off humming some tune he's heard before, he doesn't hide his grumble over her comment as he snatches an extra blanket from his tent; only hoping it's as easy as the bard made it out to be.

* * *

The hair on the back of his neck stands up, and the tingling in his fingers announces that he's found her—her footprints were getting too faint, covered up by the fresh snow. They're still high enough on the mountain that the snow sticks, but it isn't as dreadfully cold as when they were at the temple. The clearing is a small one, one she had commented on earlier for the _view _and overlooking the rest of the valley they have to head down in the morning, surrounded by tree's he almost doesn't see her, but he_ feels _her.

He had wanted to be quiet, but the crunch and his cursing at getting wet snow in his boots causes her to stir, casting a look over her shoulder her expression inscrutable—_By the Maker that look is unbearable!_ _Dark eyes listless and mouth forlorn…_ Alistair sighs to himself, he continues to march through the snow, teeth chattering and breath coming out in small gasps; she hates the cold, has told him on several occasions, but why isn't she shivering?

"You didn't have to come and collect me you know, I was headed back any minute." She speaks finally, as he's a shoulder width apart from her.

"Actually, I _did,_ the sodding stuff is near up to my calves and it's up to your knees! Wynne would kill me if you had gotten frostbite now, instead of up there when it was really coming down," Alistair replies, shaking out the blanket he's brought with him he lays it down carefully. He sits down on it, and looks at her expectantly, "Aren't you going to join me? It's a very lovely view you've picked out here." A dark eyebrow raises, he notices now that she is shivering, her bottom lip quivers in that way that instantly makes him think of himself as a _terrible_ man.

Belai shifts a bit and manages to free a foot from her spot, and the other until awkwardly she falls, knees first on to the blanket. It's reactionary, and as she tries to steady herself his hands have found their way around her waist—he feels her stiffen and resist, causing her to fall backwards on top of him.

Air escapes him in a _whoosh_, coughing and spluttering she's scrambling off of him, apologizing profusely for the buckles on her braces that hit him squarely in the throat. "Alistair, are you alright!?" She has a tight grip on he's shoulders, the pain in his throat is meaningless, all he can see is the snowfall reflected in her eyes— her iris's eclipsing and merging into the rest of the space,_ bottomless_, he thinks again. _Stupid._

"Hello!" Belai's tone is sharp now, he manages a half grin, her eyes roll on their own accord.

"Yes, sorry, trying to recover the use of my windpipe—sorry," He rubs his throat, noticing that her hands are still on his shoulders and she's still_ staring_ at him. They had touched before of course, the simple things, handing off weapons, sharing silverware when they've forgotten to wash—_a kiss to the cheek._ This was bewildering though, how her hands, cold, but so—_warm._ Her heat soaked through him, or the contact between them caused it—sinking in deep, until he was sure his body would melt under her touch.

Alistair took a deep breath, _she must feel it too_, he thought idly, but pushed it back; there were important things to be said, and his own _raging_ would not stay his words. "Listen," he begins, still fumbling for the right words, her hands slip off his shoulders (he needs to concentrate anyway), "We need to talk about what happened up there and…about what happened before Ostagar…" He trails off and watches as she recedes into herself again, lowering herself down into a sitting position. They're sitting across from each other, but they are worlds apart, she hasn't run away_ and I won't give her the chance_—he simply waits for her,_ patience._

"What is it exactly that you would like to know?" Belai says slowly, her hands folded gently in her lap.

"Well, umm, you see, I've talked so much about what happened in my life as a boy, and well…you've never really talked about your life, in the Alienage that is." She nods, shifting, the plates on her armor jingle. "And well, that woman, Shianni was it? The Guardian asked about her, and she appeared to you. She called you cousin, but her shade…she was upset with you, why?" He has never seen a person more uncomfortable, even himself. Unwillingly she's radiating this helplessness, even as she tries to throw up walls—his method is derision, hers is fortification, not entirely different.

"There's something you must understand first, before I…before I tell you what I am about to tell you," Belai says, "First know that I am…sorry, for how I acted up there, you've come to depend on me and I let you down."

"You didn't let me down, it's just confusing, and I thought that since I can trust you — well you could trust me."

"I…I can trust you, it's just a very old, and very deep wound that recently just began to… ache again," She rubs her arms idly, her teeth now chattering. Alistair can't help himself as he scoots closer to her, she doesn't move away, "If you, if you understand my meaning."

"I do." He replies, assuring her as best he can. Belai sighs, looking past him, her eyes close, she begins to speak.

"The first thing you must realize is that my culture, my people, we are a people of denial. We believe that even though our situation is dire, it could be worse, it can always be_ worse._ It does get worse though, and I…I have seen those things, with my own two eyes—shatter the illusion we've created for ourselves for generations." Alistair nods slowly as she pauses, considering, he will not speak until she has said everything that she needs to.

Belai talks about her mother first, the one Duncan had briefly mentioned to Alistair. It was his reason for going to Denerim in the first place, to track down Adaia's only living child, Belai, this he remembers.

"I have come to understand that my mother, and her sister, my cousins mother, they were once a part of a clan of Dalish. Something terrible happened, something she would not speak of to anyone, even my father…whatever it was, and it plagued her. Despite this though she remained as she had always been, proud…"

She takes a shuddering breath, the air releasing in a wisp of cold around her, she opens her eyes and looks at him hard. "Life for her in the Alienage was torture, having to submit to the humans, after a life of wandering free and alone. She loved me and my father dearly, but one day she couldn't take it anymore, she simply snapped." She gestures with her hands, the motion of a breaking twig, "They came for her, the guards. Someone on the inside, one of our own people—they told the guards about my mother's plan for a supposed rebellion, that she had been training the younger elves to fight. It's illegal to have weapons if you're an elf, that's basis enough to be put to death."

"And she was training them, wasn't she?" Alistair asked, she nodded, smiling ruefully.

"I sit here before you as one of the last. The rest of them were slaughtered, taken from their beds at night and murdered in front of their families. My aunt had been wise, she had taken Soris and Shianni on a trip to see their father…they too were spared."

"They killed her." It was not a question, simply a statement in disbelief. Alistair swallows slowly and takes it in, beginning to understand bit by bit the woman who sits before him.

"Yes," she says finally, wrapping her arms around herself she rests her head on her knees. "They took her in broad daylight, as I watched with my father in the garden—she was screaming at him, at them. One of them tried to grab me, but she stopped him, broke his neck." She begins to laugh, it comes out like a sob, and she rubs snowflakes and tears out of her eyes.

He wants to reach out and do it for her, brush the hair from her eyes and kiss away the tears that fall and leave angry trails on her cheeks. "My father tried to shield me from it…but I saw it all…everything. They beat her first, there were six of them against her—it took that many to get her on the ground…and then they did it. They slit her throat, and I still remember the bastard stepping away…not wanting it to touch him, my mother's blood."

She begins to rock, trying to stifle the torrent of emotion bursting through her. Alistair can stand it no longer as he moves in as close as he can be, wrapping his arms around her, she buries her face in his chest. He smooth's away the hair that has fallen in her face, the snowflakes like speckled stars against the night sky. With his teeth he pulls his gloves off, but doesn't break contact with her for second—his thumbs run deftly over her eyes and cheeks as the tears pour ceaselessly.

"They tried to take her too," she whispers, pulling back to look at him. "Shianni and the others, the Arl of Denerim, his son did—they beat her, and raped her and I was too late to stop them." Her hands are on his now, gripping at them, her knuckles white, "But I killed him, I killed all of them. Every guard, armed or not—Maker, I even killed the dogs…" She covers her mouth to try and stifle the tortured whimpers, and Alistair is held in disbelief at her words, not because she isn't capable…but the nature of the crime she is confessing.

Always so calm, controlled, level headed. She was the disarmer, not the instigator. Alistair willingly let her take control of their rag tag group not only because he simply preferred it, but because she was always the note of sanity amidst the lunacy choir they partook in.

"And Duncan came, conscripted me before they came to take me to the gallows. I didn't want to go. I didn't want to leave her, I never…I never wanted to be a Grey Warden, never in all my dreams. I would have rather died I thought…"

He gathers her in his arms then; she's too exhausted to struggle even if she wanted to, but she doesn't—her head rests in the crook of his shoulder, and he's glad he took the time to remove his heavy plating before coming to find her.

"I hope you can forgive me." She says after sitting with him in silence for a time. Alistair places a small kiss on her forehead, his own anxiety suddenly forgotten in the wake of her need, almost insignificant—he feels humbled and embarrassed for his past whining.

"Of course, I can't—I can't hold something like that against you." He says softly, sincerely. "We all have our ideas on what we want to do in life…and for whatever reason you're here now, and I hope..." Belai raises her head off his shoulder, her head tilting upward—their noses inches from each other.

"What do you hope Alistair?" And when she says him name, part murmur part sigh, he's lost his words again.

"I hope you'll stay." He swallows and searches her face for any inclination of rejection, but he finds none, just her, with her dark eyes open and wondering. "Thank you for telling me, I can't pretend to know the kind of loss you feel—even with Duncan, it doesn't quite compare, and I wouldn't try to…." He trails off and he feels on the verge of pubescence again, all tinny voiced and no chest hair, trying to get a peek under the Sister's skirts when he thought no one was watching.

"There's something I need to know though, if you might oblige me."

"Yes?" She asks and Alistair's gaze is drawn downwards, to her lips and her chin—she has a way of pursing her lips that reminds him of eating fruit, cherries specifically, or maybe it's peaches…he can't remember though, suddenly lost in the idea of what lips,_ her lips_ represent. _ He's seen her chew cinnamon bark when she thinks no one is looking, he's been meaning to pick some up since being in Denerim._

"I know it…might sound strange, considering we haven't known each other for very long, but I've come to…care for you. A great deal in fact." Her eyelids do that wonderful thing again, the quick fluttering of lashes, the same kind when she inhaled the left over scent from the rose—his pulse quickens, he's sure she can hear his heart beat like he can, thundering in his ears. "Maybe it's because we've gone through so much together. I…I don't know…or maybe I'm imagining it all, fooling myself."

She's either speechless, or she thinks he's a complete idiot. The too familiar feeling of dread worms its self inside his gut, and before he can stop himself he blurts it out before it becomes too much to hold back. "Am I? Fooling myself, that is, or do you think you might ever…feel the same way, about me?" He knows his tone tinges on desperation, but she's so agonizingly close, and deep inside he's still a boy raised by the Chantry, forever unknowing and self- flagellating.

"You…you don't care that I'm an elf?" He almost laughs but knows it wouldn't be appropriate, if only she_ knew._

"No, that doesn't matter…and it never mattered—will never matter." He replies steadily, he'd like to believe that something like relief has washed over her, but her eyes are still locked on his, the same serious expression.

"I think I already do, Alistair." She says is slowly, thoughtfully, the way he's come to know that when she says it, she means it.

That's all he needs, and yet he still feels the compulsion to be humorous, saying something along the lines of_ fooling _her—it's gone though, in the instant he leans down and she slides her lovely hands around his neck. He can't decide whether her lips are cool or hot, the weather would tell him the former but is own lips set ablaze at the contact would beg the latter.

She smells like cinnamon and tastes like salt. Her tears from moments before slipped into the cracked crevices of her once taut mouth, now pliant, yielding, the taste of her sadness no longer her own—but his as well. It threatens to overpower him entirely, but he is no stranger to this kind of feeling, and he only hopes to quell it for her.

She weaves her fingers in his hair, and any wish he'd had before about this moment is thrown away as she pulls him down harder—mouths that breathe hot salutations, willing neighbors in a land both foreign to them. Alistair feels reduced to the basest of forms, all sensations and thoughts autonomous from his waking mind, and they're only_ kissing. _But she's there in his arms, her nails digging into his scalp and her mouth is open stoking that sovereign part of him with the slightest of moans—a flick of her tongue and her wonderfully chapped lips.

He knows she's more experienced, they spoke little of it because the both of them were too embarrassed—he's all ridiculous metaphors, she has the indifference of what he assumes is veteran. Even if it's the case though he can't push it much further without doing something stupid, so he pulls back breathlessly, needing to look at her.

Belai's eyes open, dazed and blinking, mouth swollen and parted—forming words that don't quite make it out. He's winded, utterly winded as she regards him with a look that means more than what it is.

"Is something wrong?" She says at last, his first compulsion is to tell her all the things that_ are_ wrong; how utterly impractical he's been, how he'd like to apologize for his lackluster performance, or like the cold for instance—and the Darkspawn. But this newfound independent nation of desire-filled Alistair is grinning and wants to kiss her again._ And again, and again, and again._

"No, not exactly…how do I say this without sounding like a complete buffoon?" He sighs, "That…that wasn't too soon, was it?"

A thoughtful look crosses her face as she puts a finger to her lips, "Hmmm. I don't know, I've never had a human man kiss me before, let alone one I _wanted_ to kiss…I think I'll need more testing, just to be sure."_ By the Maker_, if she doesn't laugh and he's soon joining her, the kind of laughing that comes from the deepest part of you—so good it almost hurts.

"Well, I'll have to arrange that then, won't I?" Alistair is in utter disbelief, not only did she like it, but she's implying that she'd like to do it_ more._ How quickly things turned from being dire to her smile spreading coyly, _Maker strike me down right now if this isn't one of the loveliest creatures you've ever created._

The smiting never comes as Alistair stands, pulling Belai up with him. "So how are we going to get back?" She asks honestly concerned, a wicked idea forms in his head.

"Well, seeing that the snow is almost as tall as you are that really only leaves one option…" He replies, naughtiness creeping into his voice.

"And what option would that be?" He bends down until his mouth is adjacent to her ear, whispering his intent. A look of horror instantly spreads; protest ready to fly when Belai is interrupted by Alistair lifting her up.

"Alistair, for the love of Andraste put me down! I can sodding well walk!" But he's ignoring her, already wrapping the warm side of the blanket around her as he tucks her into his embrace like a babe.

"See, isn't this nice? Not only are you warm, but a dashing Grey Warden get's to spare you of frostbitten toes! My dear lady I am envious of your luck."

* * *

She doesn't say a word, quietly protesting to him the entire way back to camp, but through sneaking glances he catches her smile and blush when their eyes meet. It's only until Zevran catcalls and Morrigan is threatening a rise of bile does she thank him—not in words though, ignoring the blatant murmurings of her companions she offers out her hand to him.

"Thank you Ser Knight, I am indebted to your generosity." She says, in the mocking tones of a lady they both made fun of in Denerim not long ago, her impression nearly spot on.

He bows, eyes stretched up to meet hers he lowers his lips and presses a small promise of a kiss to her hand. They linger there, and he watches her flush again.

"It was my pleasure my Lady," he replies, and it comes out deeper than he wanted it to be but it rings something charming, her flush persisting.

"Well, you two going to stand there all day and make kissy faces, or are you going to bury the one-eyed worm already!" Oghren belches from across the way, Alistair instantly lets go of her hand, spluttering.

"Right, well, umm, see you in the morning!" He's turning on his heel and turning ten shades of crimson as the dwarf's laughter echoes around the camp, interrupted by burping and other bodily noises.

He only turns to look around once, and she's still standing there, his blanket wrapped around her and the hand he kissed pressed to her mouth to cover the smile he knows _he_ put there.


	4. Break love to make

A.N: So, I promised some nsfw-ness, and It's not quite _coup de gras_ of this story (next chapter I promise!) but there is NSFW material in this chapter. So, if you're offended turn away please. Of course this is still un-betad, so feel free to point out my errors. Criticism is a must! I don't mind, really. I feel too long winded for my own good, considering this took three weeks to complete and I rewrote it two times. This might be the last update for a little while, Mass Effect 2 is coming out soon--other Bioware crack to get addicted to! I'll come back to this though, I promise, I've never finished a long fic like this, but in this instance it will be_ finished. _Anyway, for those of you who have left kind comments, I hope you enjoy, you prod me into action.

* * *

When Arl Eamon's eyes lazily open to gaze upon the figures of his wife and son, Alistair feels two things. Two things precisely, one of them is joy that the only other father figure he has ever known is alive, and the other is well…sadness. The kind of sadness that's mixed with a sort of envy, where you feel guilty that you're even jealous of something so wholesome, sad because you simply cannot help it. There are tears, embraces, and Bann Teagan ushers them silently out of the room so that the family can have their private moment.

"My lady, might I have a word before you and your companions retire?" Bann Teagan asks, taking Belai aside.

"Of course," She turns to them, and Alistair is always fascinated with how she addresses them, how natural her posture speaks volumes without ever really saying a word, exuding an authority that very few can deny. "We leave to find the Dalish as soon as we have had counsel with the Arl, enjoy your evening and… do try not to get into too much trouble." The last comment is directed at the duo, consisting of Oghren and Zevran who are already making plans to visit the village tavern. There is amiable chatter as they disperse, and with a last glance at Belai Alistair goes to get settled in his room.

There is a bed, it is a hard bed but he doesn't mind, it's a _bed._ It is a fair sized room too, with a small window overlooking the courtyard; he watches as the knights of Redcliffe train the remaining militia below, the captain bellowing orders as volleys of arrows drown his voice out. There is a woman accompanied by a young boy, no older than eight who has a small bow clutched in his hands himself, she is smiling at the Captain as he stops drilling to scoop the young boy into his arms, laughing.

It feels familiar. As a young boy he would watch the Knights of Redcliffe train here, much as they do now and every time he would beg Eamon to let him have a practice sword so that he could be a knight too.

_Do all little boys dream of being Knights?_ Alistair wonders, scrubbing his face with a washcloth, the boy is running around now with other boys and girls who have come to watch their fathers and brothers prepare to fight in the battle that is brewing, closer everyday to erupting. He closes his eyes for a moment to let the water drip down his face, when he opens them he sees that the captain and his wife have moved off to the side, seeking the shade of the oak tree that's been there for_ ages._

She is beautiful, in a simple way Alistair observes, long golden tresses that are swept up into braids wrapped around her head; he isn't too bad looking himself the Captain, he's no Ser Perth (the ladies in the village would say) but such is to be expected of infantry men. He is in his leathers, she wears the apron around her waist better than any of the men around her wear their swords—she uses it more deftly too, as it passes lovingly over her husband's cheek, wiping the dirt away. Like moments before when Eamon awoke and Isolde rushed to his side, Alistair feels like he's an intruder, staring like he does.

_There are no private moments, truly_, he muses.

He can't help but watch though, with awe and longing as the captain lifts his helm and bows his head to place a sweet kiss upon his wife's awaiting lips. _No, no more_ and Alistair turns away from the washstand, dropping the cloth in the bowl with a defiant plunk. When his body hits the bed every part of him that can ache _does,_ both from the physical trials he has endured and the mental ones that plague on his thoughts like the Blight itself.

He was born in this place, to a serving girl that the King of Ferelden had happened to have a passing fancy with—_I was probably conceived in this place_, he suddenly feels nauseous, but not at thought of his mother and Maric, but that Queen Rowan , Eamon's sister was probably just down the hall when it happened.

The space between his eyes hurts as he pinches it to try and relieve the pressure. _ You feel guilt, that's natural; you were raised in a place that thrives on the bloody emotion after all, but __**really**__ Alistair, how childish. Grow up for Maker's sake and concentrate on what you need to do._ That's the problem though, he can't, but when he does he sees the image of the captain and his wife under the shade of the tree, and if it doesn't just leave him _hollow_.

He will never have these things. He knows this, not as a Grey Warden, not with the taint simmering inside of him. Inside his head the Warden's oath plays like a songbird who sings every morning, rain or shine and down below they prepare to fight a war, to fight a Blight—will any of them, himself included ever live after to know the simple pleasure of a lovers kiss underneath the shade of a tree? He closes his eyes and sighs, it isn't his place to say, he will simply have to live with the ache.

"—again, I am eternally grateful my Lady, if you had not arrived when you did, I fear I would not be standing here, talking of such things…"

"Think nothing of it, besides, it was Alistair's idea after all to seek out Eamon." Alistair opens his eyes at the mention of his name, _since when were these walls so thin…_two pairs of footsteps pass his door and stop nearby, Teagan escorting Belai to her room—he frowns and strains to hear more of their conversation.

"Yes, Alistair…it was a shock seeing him after so long. I missed the boy you know, he's turned out to be quite the man though, and a Warden no less—Eamon will be glad to see him when he has recovered fully. Though I'm sure he'll hardly recognize him, he looks so much like…" Alistair pales, _I don't think I want to hear this, _he rolls over on to his stomach and buries his face into the mattress._ Much better Alistair, now your face hurts as much as your back you twit._ Groaning he rolls back over and into a sitting position on the bed, his gaze drawn to the wall where behind it they speak.

"—well then, a pleasant evening to you, I will seek you out once Eamon has regained consciousness again." Teagans footsteps fade away down the hall as Belai's door opens and closes quickly, the sound of armor being dropped on the rug covered, stone floor evident through the wall.

Alistair raises his head, resting his chin in his hand he stares at the wall that separates him from her, musing on the last three days from when they left Haven and arrived not long ago. Specifically the part where they _kissed_, and then they shyly danced around each other, too embarrassed to…entertain the activity again with their companions watching_ everything._ Not that there hadn't stolen glances, smiles and brief touching of hands—it almost nauseates him, not from loathing though but from the sheer anxiety of it all. It had been alright though, they had needed to reach Redcliffe in haste, a life hanging in the balance, so on and so forth…

He can hear the Reverend Mother's shrill screeching in his ears in his repose, sermons on sin and lectures about temptations of the flesh. It's almost like a dream now, or some vague nightmare, taking his vows and completing the last remnants of his training as a Templar. It never happened though, _thank the Maker_, if it had he wouldn't be here now staring at a wall thinking about her—he'd be off in prayer, deep in self flagellation over the thoughts that currently invaded his mind.

Thoughts of her, wondering if she wouldn't mind if _he_ took her under the shade of a tree, and kissed her…_and let your hands wander to the curve of her hip, the swell of her well formed backside, her lips swollen and flushed—her breath hot on your ear…_

A series of knocks shakes him from his reverie as he jumps up, flustered, crossing the room to wrench open the door. He has cross words ready to exchange with whomever has so rudely interrupted his respite, they die on his lips though as his eyes take in the sight of Belai standing before him, a pigtail caught between her fingers and her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

"Hi."

"Hello."

She shifts her weight from foot to foot and coughs, "I'm not disturbing you, am I?"

"No! No, not at all…I was umm…just freshening up." Belai nods and looks past him at his room, and then slowly back at him, questioning.

"Would you—would you like to come in?" Alistair asks stuttering, she nods wordlessly again and steps inside. He closes the door behind them, feeling very much akin to a child with his hand caught in a cookie jar.

For a moment they simply look at each other, they've done this a lot in the past few days he has noticed. He can feel himself flushing down to his very core as he stares intently at the cut of her breeches (if they could be called that) that end a few inches above the knee, exposing her legs fully to him; her blue linen tunic billows around her, swallowing her petite frame but failing to really hide it. It's a lace up, but the first few laces are united granting him a view of her delicate collar bone and the silver pendant she hasn't taken off since she received it from the shade Shianni in the Gauntlet. He wonders, again, if she has any idea of the effect she has on him.

"So what did you and Teagan talk about?" Alistair finds himself blurting out, moving away from the door to sit once more on his bed. She shrugs and turns her body towards the window, gazing outwards intently.

"What anyone ever wants to talk about with me, the Blight, the civil war. Their amazement that I'm an elf, you know the usual." She goes back to fiddling with one of her pigtails, he frowns.

"You know, not _everyone_ wants to talk about those things with you."

"There's nothing else to talk about."

"Sure there is."

"Like what?"

"Like…" Alistair trails off and Belai scoffs.

"See, I told you, there's nothing," she walks over to where he sits and plops down ungracefully, as she always does, tucking her legs under each other Antivan style.

"Well, that's certainly not what I _always _want to talk to you about…" he looks down at his hands, the gash he received a few days ago still purpling, a very angry cut that he never bothered to take to Wynne.

"Oh? Say now we were to talk about something, what would it be about?"

It comes out before he even has time to censor himself, "Well, I'd start off telling you how beautiful you are, and depending on whether or not that went over well, well I'd—" He dares to lift his head and look at her, and it's so priceless—her fingers paused in mid twirl of her hair, her mouth slightly agape and a sufficient flush that's spread from her cheeks to her neck.

"—you think I'm…beautiful?" she asks quietly, lowering her eyes.

"Do I think? No my lady, have you received an injury to your head in the last skirmish? I do not simply _think_, I _know_." Idly he runs his hand through his hair again, swallowing loudly as to find moisture for his throat that's gone dry. "—and well, beautiful doesn't quite describe it as well as I'd like, but it will have to do since I am so poor with my words."

"Oh." There is a pregnant pause, filled with questions and tensions as they sit side by side on_ his_ bed, alone together.

"Here," she fishes into her pocket, exposing the flat plane of her stomach to him again, she holds out the object to him. Tentatively he takes it, cradling it in-between his palms he stares down at it for a moment before it dawns on him.

"This is…my mother's amulet," Alistair says slowly, holding it up to the dying sunlight he sees the cracks the tarnished silver is ridden with, but recognizable anywhere is Andraste's flame. "Why isn't it broken? And where did you find it?"

"Well, I was in the Arl's study with Teagan, consulting the almanac when I happened upon it." Belai replies softly. He's still wordless as he comprehends what this means, the tiny cracks, the tarnished surface—it shouldn't exist; he had destroyed it in his childish fury, hadn't he? But there it was, cracked and tarnished but it was hers once, his mother.

"Why would he…why would he keep it, why would he repair it? I don't…I don't understand."

She motions towards the amulet, meeting his eyes again. "Perhaps you mean more to him than you think Alistair, maybe he thought that one day he could give it to you and maybe you'd—"

"Forgive him," Alistair finishes, he exhales the breath he's been holding and feels stupid again. Stupid for what he did all those years ago, ridiculous for jealousy he feels and…_surprised, she actually remembered. _Something inside of him feels heavy; his heart beats rapidly in his chest and something akin to hunger gnaws at his stomach. "Thank you, I mean it. I thought I'd lost it forever, hopefully when this is all over I can talk to him about this." He laughs on impulse, surprised still that she had even taken the time pilfer through the Arl's things, it's a bad habit she has but it's more curiosity than maliciousness –in this instance it would be rude to complain about her activities now.

"I just…I'm so used to people not really listening to me when I go on about things."

"Well," a wry smile works its way on to her face, the one he's grown accustomed to when she decides to be cheeky. "People ignore you, and people won't leave me alone. I guess it balances out."

"Yes I guess it does."

"Hmm? I'm sorry did you say something?"

"Ha-ha, very funny fearless leader. Is this the part where the minstrels appear and we start dancing?"

"I hate dancing." She shudders and sticks her tongue out in disgust. Alistair nods mutely in agreement.

"Well, are you going to put it on?"

He holds it in front of him again and tries fingering the clasp open, his fingers are too large and he can see her suppressing laughter at his clumsy attempts to get it around his neck.

"Here," she holds out her hands to him, he hands it to her delicately, her expert digits make quick work of the clasp—she leans into him, her head on his shoulder, he stares unabashedly at the bareness of her collarbone, _again._

Alistair thinks back to the things he's read, the stolen passages memorized for moments like this he had only hoped for. Belai's breath dances along his ear and neck as lightly, the hands he's fallen in love with secure the heirloom she recovered for him. Lately he's more apt to fail in trying to help himself with her, his hands move to her arms, gripping them lightly as he inhales the sweet and spicy scent her scalp exudes. She makes a noise in her throat as she pulls back, the stubble on his cheek rubbing against the nape of her neck. They're eyes are locked again, her eyes plead actions, he sees this, suspended orbs dark against the white, open but at the same time—a closed door. He's so slow, (but it's not from not trying) and its taken lifetimes for him to understand that kind of look in a person's eyes—what it can mean.

With her though, it can be a myriad of things, and the memory of the snow a few scant days ago compels him to find out if his assumptions are correct. It's just a tilt, an incline of his neck that makes the meeting of their lips possible— for she is already there waiting to move as he moves; his heart jumps, leaps as the memorized passages are thrown promptly into the mental garbage pile.

Acceptance is a beautiful thing, and it's the thing he's desired the most, from her especially, and by the Maker if he hasn't just received it a tenfold over when the slight sigh escapes her. It's gentler this time, there's no sadness tinged on it like before or the nervousness of the event, just exploring the intricate patterns and texture sprawling across her lips as first time kissing conspirators should.

Alistair is vaguely aware of Belai shifting forward, her arms are around his neck—she's instantly flawless, pressed into the angles of his body, breaths exchange; a pressure is building in the deepest parts of him and Alistair reckons to explode at a moment's notice as she emboldens him with her ministrations. He's been sampling a pocketful of some confection they picked up in Denerim, it tastes like pure sugar but dissolves and tastes like honey, her idle chewing's of cinnamon are repaid in kind with his own boldness, a swipe of his tongue along her lower lip—the flavors dance between them, in their wanting mouths, caramelizing.

He wants to taste all of her, not just the new sovereign Alistair spawned in the wake of their exchanges, but the waking man who pulls her in tighter—demanding more. She doesn't stop him, isn't shy, he doesn't know what to say about it. It's something so completely foreign, but entirely breathtaking as moist softness yields and the touching of their tongues spreads a red hot flush across their skin. _Too much, too much, slow down…_ Alistair tries to pull back, murmuring her name pleadingly.

Belai doesn't let him pull back though, she pushes forward. He's sucking in a sharp breath he finds himself flat on his back on the bed with her above him, hands resting on his chest. An audible smack of their mouths disengaging rings in his buzzing ears as his breath comes out heavy and hers erratic. It's too fast, he knows this, they're still like very acquainted strangers, knowing much but only understanding what needs to be understood, he can't stop it though—the feeling, multitudes of sensations laden and associated with one single emotion. _No—I must slow, slow down, oh please don't do that…_"Belai I—" She presses a finger to his lips, silencing him—it isn't necessary though, he's already speechless and entranced by the visage of her and her hips pressed snugly into his own.

In this vision, hazy and filled with words he doesn't care to mention, at least not yet, it's here he notices that the both of them have changed. Alistair has felt it, gradually becoming more apparent as each day passes in each other's company; the ease, the comfort, the knowingness that feels quite a bit older then it is—part of him wonders if it is the taint singing in their veins and drawing them inwards, is hesitant, the other part doesn't care. He wants, no he_ needs_, to throw caution to the bloody wind and simply _tell her, _so much stands in the way though, the implications.

They are Grey Wardens, their life is not truly their own anymore and what they feel could only lead to distractions, lead them away from their true purpose. _ It already has_, sometimes the Blight is only a passing cloud over the horizon, in his dreams they are undaunted and he is brave—_in dreams though, only. _It is a sweet mirage though, like the moment he witnessed not moments before, the Captain and his faithful wife, fearless and complete under the shade of an apple. It's these reasons, and more that he pushes down every bit of want and desire, calms his heart, stills his beating heart.

Belai's lips are hovering above his again, too knowing, the word he doesn't want to use hangs in the air between them—black marble, cool and reflective, she's reading his thoughts (thought not truly) because Alistair cannot hide them as their eyes meet.

"We can't," he hoarsely whispers, his body in a mire of arousal still as his brain feebly tries to command it. It wounds her, her head bows in defeat as she gingerly slides off of him to sit once again at his side. He trembling swallows, his hands shaking, body a whole mess of nerves. "Believe me, I want to, but it's all so... I mean, it's just been so—"

"I understand." Her voice is steady and like steel, but he can hear the undercurrents of something dangerous in her tone, she doesn't look at him. "I am sorry if I have made you uncomfortable, it was not my desire to do so…" she pauses, and stands up. "It will not happen again."

Before he can even come up with a retort she is gone, slippers slapping against stone, her door slamming causes Alistair to flinch. He simply does not know what to say, his strangely conflicted mind is all but silent now as his body is still raging—needing release. Drawing in a shaky breath he lumbers to his door and closes it quietly, fastening the bolt, he makes quick work of the window too—the velvet curtain pulled down eclipses him in complete darkness. His body still hurts as he lies down once more, weariness of battle and the torrid effects she has left on him.

Grabbing a pillow from above him he curls in on himself, face half buried into the pillow, body rigid, he closes his eyes, thinks—of her, images that slide inside his mind so easily he gasps at his own state of being, he won't last long. Though he never does, he used to when the fantasies were of his own conjuring and not based off of a reality that could have happened_._ _Should have happened,_ he groans weakly into the pillow as he quickens his pace, if he had not been so _honorable._ There is no room left in his mind for it now though, not when his eyes are shut so tight…

* * *

_Alistair imagines them in their own piece of shade, their own apple tree. Belai is leaning against the tree casually, but considering him carefully (or maybe it's predatory, often people are not as they are in dreams, rather how the dreamer deems them) and slowly devouring an apple she has plucked from above. Of course, in his dreams he is more daring, he leans into her, an arm resting over her head she offers the apple out to him; he moves to take a bite, but there is a flash of a smile and she takes the bite herself. Munching happily, crunching with vigor, juice drips down her chin—the very most center of her eyes has disappeared into the rest of the darkness surrounding it, washed over in lust._

_He breathes, the word is there now, and he can say it in his fantasy, lust. Alistair has thought of this scenario before, and will probably do so again, the times before were much more tender though—this Alistair is not, he is angry with himself, in the waking world, it ripples to this sacred place of his he has imagined for them. He uses his mouth as a tool, sucking and licking the juice that has trickled down her chin and neck, eliciting quiet gasps from her._

This is all pretend, he doesn't know, but he wants to, these secret places on her body that would quench the starvation in them both.

_Dream Belai drops the apple, wholly enthralled with what his own dream self is doing to her, covering the top part of her breasts with kisses she holds him in place, shaking, quietly saying his name. "Alistair…Alistair…" He is on his knees now, practically ripping the ties of her tunic, exposing the more lightly colored flesh, shadows from the leaves above and his hands caress the pert, soft mounds; they fit perfectly over them, cupping and squeezing, he can only hope the rough texture of his hands would drive her mad. She pushes him backwards, none too gently, he lands in the soft dewy grass and she is atop of him, her mouth covering his own, working to rid the material separating their skin…_

Snapping back into the waking world he is almost sobbing into his pillow, his movements furious as he builds towards release…_she's guiding him inside of her, his hands everywhere, on her breasts, on her hips, lost in-between the fraction of an inch that separates them…_He arches into his own touch, the pillow muffling the sound as he pants her name, utterly spent.

He ghost kisses his fist, pretending again, stifling the feelings of guilt and sadness that wash over him.

There's more to this, more to her, more to them, Alistair realizes. Grey Warden or no, he can't ignore her, not when he's already given so much of himself, not with what she has done for him. His eyes grow heavy with sleep, covering his modesty with a blanket he stares at the wall again—that divides them, knowing that he denied her in his own fear; fear that was reduced to another word he wasn't quite ready to say or think of in this world.

* * *

A.N2: I hope that wasn't too terrible! I've only written a handful of smut, I enjoyed writing it at least. ;) Until next time....


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